365 days of madness
by Dontmezwitme
Summary: One author attempts to catologue the major and minor events of every single day of the year. **OCs used with discretion.
1. July 1st

He was probably _not_ supposed to be working on his own birthday party. America had told him probably fifteen-thousand times that the hero was going to make the most awesome birthday party _ever_ and that the sidekick was not allowed to do anything about it. It was nice of him to call him up specifically to say that-not so nice when the call came at exactly one minute after midnight after a loud, over-exuberant voice screams happy birthday at you.

Of course, America being America, he didn't get started on it until noon, and when he did there was much apologizing and shoving of Canadians out of the room. He even enlisted the help of Netherlands (who was still not quite used to the Canadian timezone and kept yawning) and Ukraine (who was hit with jetlag even worse than Netherlands and fell asleep at times.) Well, those were who he'd known about, since they had arrived at five in the morning as bright and chipper as they could be, along with Cuba and took him out to a pancake shop for an incredibly early breakfast. Canada got some alone time with Ukraine (which was nice-he didn't see her a lot of the time) and Netherlands and Cuba got into a fight about the merits of a pipe versus that of a cigar.

Cuba had to go back to his house for a bit (his boss demanded that he do some paperwork) and he promised to come back when the party started.

But that happy time had been cut short by America, who immediately kicked Canada out and told him to "come back at 4:29 pm."

He was very confused. "America, why do I have to stay outside the house for four and a half hours-"

America shushed him and then turned back to the inside of the house, shouting "T minus four-hours—twenty-two-minutes-and-thirty-five-seconds until the party starts! Let's get happening, people!"

At that a loud, garbled and most likely Dutch phrase erupted from his kitchen, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Canada forlornly walked away and sent up a silent prayer that his house would still be there when he got back.

* * *

><p>"I love you, poutine." He picked up another gravy-slathered chip and bit into it. "You understand me."<p>

He was in a café where he could see the television, turned onto the news for updates of Canada Day. A little girl in the booth opposite him kept craning her head to look at it, and waving her little maple-bedecked flag.

He sighed into his chips. He had about an hour to kill before his "totally awesome" party was ready, and he decided to go back early and help.

Ukraine opened the door, looking harried and with unshed tears glistening in her eyes; at the sight of Canada she buried her face into his neck and started to cry.

"I-I'm so sorry, Matvey-" she sobbed. "I tr-tried to make Mr. America not turn you out of your house bu-but I couldn't get him to listen!"

"Sshh, it's okay, it's okay…" he soothed, patting her platinum-blond hair. His poor girlfriend could easily be pushed to tears, but thankfully he could usually cheer her up.

Manouvering around into the doorway, Canada backed up and guided Ukraine to a couch in the now-unrecognizable lounge room. Festoons of red and white banners littered the space; dashes of roses (and lilies-he could guess how a few pots were broken) and branches of maple trees were planted in his largest, thankfully empty maple syrup pots.

It was chaos.

He darted into the kitchen and grabbed some apple juice for Ukraine before starting to clean up the mess his brother made. It was terrifying how much _crap _had been strewn all over the place.

"What'd he do, throw everything on the floor?" he muttered, extracting his second-best suit from beneath a carton of half-eaten ice cream.

The distraught girl sniffled. "Y-yes."

He whipped his head around. "What? I was kidding! Urgh, that _idiot_!"

Well intentioned though his brother may be, it was starting to grate on his nerves that Al had treated his stuff like garbage.

Suddenly Ukraine gave a shriek of fright. He was there in a second and forgot that his hockey stick was in pieces. "W-what is it?" he asked, shocked. It was ordinary for her to cry-it happened every day-but he'd never, in all his life, remembered her scream like that.

"I-I am sorry, Matvey. I h-heard someone downstairs." she hiccupped, brushing away a few fresh tears.

He frowned. There wasn't anything in his basement that could produce such a noise-it was empty of anything, mainly because he hadn't gotten around to actually dumping his stuff in it. He motioned for Ukraine to follow him and quietly opened the door to the basement-biting back a curse, because of course Canada forgot that the light-switch was at the farthest wall from the steps.

"Hold onto my shoulder." he said. She grasped it and he groped around for the banister, sliding down the stairs as quietly as he could.

* * *

><p>When he got to the bottom, the light was flicked on.<p>

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY CANADA!"

Confetti burst in his eyes and he felt his back being slapped by a too-strong hand (Russia?). America-_was_ that America?-grinned sheepishly and caught him into a bearhug, which was quickly joined by a very drunk England and France.

"My dear boy, 'appy birthday…"

"Geb _off _'im you _frog_!"

Prussia materialized out of _nowhere_ and smacked him on the back (right where Russia had, and it smarted). "Oh man, Kat, that scream was _awesome!_"

"T-thank you, Prussia. I did my best." Ukraine smiled tearfully. Matt looked over at his girlfriend in shock. She'd _faked_ it?

America let go of Canada and slapped him on the back (what was it with people and his back? There was going to be a huge bruise in the morning.)

"So, whaddaya think, bro?" he asked.

Canada looked around. He was surrounded by his closest friends and family, and they were paying attention to him for once. He turned around to face his brother and smiled.

"Touch my hockey sticks again and I will crush you like a bug."


	2. July 2nd

"You will not find me alive at sunrise." his dry lips cracked with the words, and the obvious sympathy in Chavigny's eyes made him irritated. With great difficulty, he tried to wave his secretary away. He had lived a full life and he was tired; too tired to deal with pity.

"Sir, there's someone to see you."

Nostradamus laughed humorlessly. "Tell them I'm dying."

"He's special, sir." Chavigny hesitated. Took a breath. "He comes with the king's blessing."

That caught the old seer's attention, and he gave a long sigh. "I shall have to admit him."

His secretary beamed, happy that his old employer acquiesced so easily. He hurried out of the room and the sound of low voices in the hallway were hurried. Then Chavigny's footsteps pattered away. After a space of a few seconds, the door edged open.

In it, a young man was hit by the dying light of the candle. He was tallish, with a mop of hair the color of honey. He pulled up a stool by his bedside.

Nostradamus could feel his scrutiny and was blunt. "Why did you come here?"

"I am intrigued in your prophecies. They are…interesting."

In his voice lay the polite skepticism which Nostradamus despised. But he was here on the King's grace; he missed the little fellow. And his own curiosity was too stirred up to chase his guest away. He was too decrepit to do so, anyways- near two-thirds gone.

The young man spun a felt hat in his hands, watching the old man shrewdly. He seemed to have a struggle to say something or not, before finally he put his hat down with a sigh.

"I wish to tell you something that no man save the King and his family knows."

If his curiosity was piqued before, now it was raging. But he maintained his composure and crossed his hands on his lap.

The young man took this as an assent. He leaned forwards, dark blue eyes not leaving the man's face. "I am the personification of the Kingdom of France. I have lived for a thousand years, and have seen a thousand things happen."

Michel Nostradamus lay stunned on his deathbed. His peace was badly shaken-he clung to the sheets to be reminded of normality. This man? This young _boy_ in front of him, younger than him, not even growing out a beard yet, was his nation? Before he could stop himself, a harsh laugh erupted from his lips.

"Would you mind telling me how you keep so well?" he asked caustically. France (for that was what he was going to have to call him) shook his head.

"It doesn't matter that you don't believe me." he said, shrugging. "No one does at first. And-well-you're dying now."

The man on the bed spat "Thank you for being so observant!"

"I was going to say that I'd live to see your prophecies be fulfilled-so anything nice and vague for me?"

This time Nostradamus did bristle at France's tone. Who did this-this impudent _child_-think he was talking to? He was on his deathbed! Surely that warranted respect!

So he decided to back-see. He could foresee something quite terrible in about two hundred years' time-but nothing like that would make _this_ man sit up and take notice. No. No, he must reach back into the _past_ to get under France's skin.

He had it in a few seconds.

"I won't pretend to read your future. But I can read your past and-" he cocked his head to one side, "-tell me, did it hurt when you stood by as she burned?"

The effect was immediate and satisfying. He flared in anger, a towering rage-France gripped his shoulders and made a visible effort not to shake Nostradamus to pieces.

"Don't-you-_dare-_"

"Did you even get to see her ashes? I heard her heart was still beating when they ripped it out-"

"You-!"

"What are you going to _do_, my dear nation?" The dying man could feel his life slip away. He knew he was going to regret being so cruel, but he was dying and nothing could touch him. "Kill me? I'm going to heaven, where she is!"

That was the last straw. And the last words of Nostradamus. His last sight before succumbing was the look of utter pain etched deep into the young man's face-and eyes too old, much too old for him.

* * *

><p>Chavigny returned the next morning to find his master was no more. On the desk where he had been writing earlier in the evening, there were these words:<p>

"Upon the return of the Embassy, the King's gift was put in place. Nothing more could be done. He will have gone to God's nearest relatives, friends, blood brothers; found quite dead near bed and bench."


	3. July 3rd

Usually Belarus would walk very slowly into world meetings. She was excited to see her brother-delighted, of course-but long ago (two months to be precise) she realized that she should save her more…demonstrative ways of showing her love until after the meeting. It was beneficial to show Russia that she _could_ control herself-that she _could_ function normally in his presence, and not act the lovelorn girl she usually was. Estonia had said that the reason he had liked Lithuania so much was because he was calm; and Estonia was the only Baltic that didn't lie horribly to her about everything.

But today that all went out of the window.

Because today was July the Third.

In Capitals.

And that meant that she needed to find her brother as soon as she could.

Her heels were muffled by the carpet, her arms swaying almost mannishly as she half-ran, half-jogged towards what she hoped was hotel room. She saw that Estonia was relaxing in a lounge and asked him where her brother was.

"I can't-breathe-Belarus-" he gasped, being entirely unhelpful. She adjusted the grip she had on his collar and asked again.

"Room-_wheeze_- 942."

Her smile widened as she let go of Estonia and remembered to thank him properly. It was something the Baltic had told her, when they were in Russia's house and Lithuania was with Russia (the walls were very ragged, she noticed), Latvia and Ukraine were crying in their rooms and they were the only two who stayed up. Russia loved thank yous.

And it was no coincidence that the room he chose was 942. Nine, as everyone knew, was three if one took away six, and that was what four and two added up to. Seven was a factor of forty-two. In his own sweet, abstract way, her dearest brother had made his room number correspond to the third of July which meant that he loved her. Which meant that they had to get married.

People said that July marriages were very lucky for the couple.

"Brother!" she called out, barely winded from her run up nine flights of stairs. "Brother, do you know what day it is today?"

She could hear her brother shuffle to the door and press his weight upon it. He was so eager to respond!

"Sunday?" he asked. He was a joker, Russia was. So very funny! Her brother really did have an amazing wit.

"No, my dear sweet brother! It's July the Third! The day you rescued me from Germany and proved that you really _did_ care! Just like you _still_ do!"

She could hear her brother start to shuffle away from the door, probably to let her in. She waited expectantly for the door to open and for her to be able to rush into her brother's arms.

The minutes ticked on. Suddenly Belarus thought of something horrible-what if Russia was trapped? Or a murderer-or an American-had snuck into his room? The thought could not be borne! She immediately attacked the door, pounding against it and shrieking "Are you alright?" over and over again.

Lithuania-by virtue of having a room directly below Russia's-heard the noise and made to move upstairs, only to be stopped by the sight of Estonia. He was huffing and puffing, clutching the banister of the stairs like a lifeline.

"Don't go-July-she's-more insane-than usual-" gasped the bespectacled nation. He crawled up the stairs, clutching his laptop in order to give himself the strength to move, and was just in time to see the door fling inwards and Belarus fall into Russia's torso.

Russia wasn't angry. That was what he noticed first. His face-which usually struck terror in Estonia's heart whenever it faced him-was sad and scared. He led Belarus in and shut the door.

Lithuania-not heeding his brother's warning-was right behind him.

"No stopping her now. Let's go downstairs and get some breakfast." sighed Estonia. He pushed the button on the elevator and waited for it to beam up, rubbing his eyes. It was out of basic human courtesy that he had stayed up through the night, waiting for the insane girl to find him. She tore apart the hotel last year looking for Russia.

* * *

><p>"Brother, I think today we should get engaged. People say that engagements that happen in July are lucky."<p>

Her hands scrabbled for her bag, in which she kept said quote. A large, warm hand on hers stilled her movements. Russia was _touching _her hand! And it wasn't to push it away, either! Her heart started up again.

"Brother, what are you-"

"Belarus, stop it."

She blinked slowly. What was Russia saying?

"You know I don't love you."

Another slow blink.

"Why can't you spend today-_your_ national holiday-with other people?"

It was strange. Her vision had suddenly become blurred. Her Russia-her Vanya-was saying nonsense.

"Today isn't about me and you." He was saying now. She couldn't stop the words from entering her head. "Today is only _about_ you, and you alone. Shouldn't you find someone who will only think of _you_ to spend it with?"

Aha. Here he said something she could respond to. She latched onto his arm and ignored what felt like prickles in her eyes. "But Russia, don't you only think of me?"

He looked away. "I don't." he said to the wall.

Belarus stood up. She felt a little liquid on her cheeks and impatiently brushed it away-it was too hot in this country, she must be sweating. She walked out with the awareness that Russia was looking at her retreating back. Surely he would stop her? No?

No.

* * *

><p>Russia pulled a scarf on, even though it was boiling. He sighed into its familiarness.<p>

"I say the same thing every year. I think that I'll have to invest in a better door…"

* * *

><p><em>Note:<em>

_The National Day of Belarus commemorates the day that Minsk was liberated from the Nazis by the Soviet Union (the soldiers, interstingly enough, were not _all_ Russian, but they had a significant majority.)  
><em>


	4. July 4th

His barbecue was going splendidly. He'd picketed the spot in Central Park for days, and now his careful planning had finally come to fruition.

With a happy hum, he flipped a few more patties on the buns and slathered it in ketchup and pickles and other good things before passing it to Taiwan. She took the five hamburgers and passed them out among other nations.

See, when it was his birthday, he gussied up and had a big, boring, official one in Upstate New York, or even in DC. He had to invite _everyone_ in order for no one to become offended; and they all sat to a polite lunch in which not much was eaten and talk was strained and polite.

But _afterwards._ Hoo boy.

Afterwards America ran home, changed into red white and blue regalia and sprinted to Central Park with fifty pounds of meat at _least _in tow, with all the other bits and pieces in their plastic bags streaming out behind him like a flag.

He ran up the stars and stripes on a pole and the first few people trickled in, joking around. England and Japan would be there, of course-they were too polite not to. Germany would arrive but three seconds later, and Italy would always appear out of nowhere. Korea would always appear a full half-hour late, Taiwan in tow (she got hung up at the shops, would be their explanation. Everyone knew full well that Korea was equally 'hung up').

And when everyone had finally arrived, that was when the scramble for food happened.

"We need another ten, bro!" called out Korea. He stuffed another cheeseburger into his mouth.

"Comin' right up! No, England, you cannot touch the stove."

"_Honestly, _I was just trying to help-"

"No, remember last time?"

"How was I to know you'd kept the fireworks next to your coal?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't know you kept your salt right next to your sugar. So there."

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"I don't know. Give these to Korea and tell him not to eat all of them!"

The guy was flipping burgers with the ease of long practice, and it was enough to feed the twenty or so hungry people. His hands were blurring together, they were moving so fast. The burgers rolled out as if they were on an assembly line.

"Hey, mate. Gimme a go, will you?" Australia held up a bag of shrimp. "I love my meat, but seafood's got a soft spot in m'heart."

America hesitated for a second, plopped another bit of meat on a bun, and surrendered the barbecue to sit next to Canada.

"And think! Just three days ago we were celebrating _your_ birthday."

There was a dull thud as Canada punched his shoulder.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You broke my hockey sticks-I'd just forgotten."

"Well, thanks bro. You sure don't change."

"Neither do you."

They looked at the dark sky, as if running out of things to say. But that wasn't them; they knew that silence held meaning.

"I miss her." said Canada suddenly.

"Who?"

"Y'know. _Her._ Mom."

"Ah." America scratched the back of his head. "Her. Yes. Ahem."

"She'd know what to say."

"Sometimes I'm scared of saying anything to her."

"Don't worry. She'll come around."

"Mmmhm."

They were in silence again, but not for long. Suddenly Macy's decided to launch the fireworks and with a crack of deafening sound huge red lights filled the sky. All conversation died as it was followed by red, white, and for some reason smiley faces. Stars and stripes winked in and out of existence, their pretty cascading nimbuses dazzling; and the roar of powder combusting continued to ring in the ears of the watchers long after the last Catherine wheel rocketed out of the sky.

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<em>

_Huge post tonight because I am leaving for a week._


	5. July 5th

"If you want to lose that beer belly, my _dear_ Scotland, you must do exercise." France did a few more sit-ups before getting to his feet and stretching out his calf muscles.

Scotland harrumphed. He'd come here to eat good food and maybe reminisce with France on the days when the EU and equality and national relations weren't in the way of giving England a swift (and well deserved) kick to the arse. He did not expect the stupid frog to try to teach him the art of parking-which seemed to involve a lot more acrobatics than he remembered.

The blond man-unfashionably donning tracksuit pants and a thin cotton wife-beater, to Scotland's continual amazement-started running towards the wall.

Don't get him wrong. At times the kilted nation did want to strangle France (it was a common reaction) but watching his ally for 705 years sprint headlong towards a _very_ solid brick wall caused him to have a minor heart attack.

This was made no less better when France _vaulted_ (France! Vaulting!) onto the wall and pulled himself over it in one smooth motion. He straddled the top of the bricks and gave a sly, satisfactory grin at the completely dumbfounded expression on the man.

"That's how you park your _car_?"

An expression of pain flitted across the other man's face.

"_Parkour_, Scotland. It's called parkour."

"Yeah, yeah, French for parking someone's car. Now how the _hell _do you do that?"

France climbed down and patted the man's stomach. "First you need to firm this up and get running. Early in the morning. Every single day."

He scowled. "Anything I can _actually _do?"

"Run and do crunches. And push-ups. And things that keep you limber…it most certainly helps in the-_ahem-_bedroom-" winked France.

Unimpressed, the man turned to the wall and eyed it carefully. Without warning he, too, ran towards it. The wind rushed through his curls, set his kilt flapping, his lungs burning (he really needed to do more exercise…a hundred years ago this would have been easy!); pulled by the momentum he _leapt_ onto the wall and landed with a dull smack.

And a crack.

And a wet sort of gurgle.

France skidded to a halt beside Scotland. "Do you feel better now that you've tried that?" he asked unsympathetically.

A muffled grumble was all that he could hear, followed by a hiss of pain.

"How drunk are you?"

He peeled Scotland off the wall and laid him on the ground. A quick whiff of his breath told more than anything the nation could have denied himself.

"Word of advice. Never attempt parkour when you're smashed." With that, he went off to find his car and maybe persuade a nice, strong person to help him pick up his friend.

* * *

><p><em>Note:<em>

_Today marks the 705th year of the mutal hatred of England by Scotland and France._


	6. July 6th

His hand flapped in front of his flushed face. It was hot in his house-his air con had busted a few hours ago and since it was a public holiday he couldn't ring up any sort of air-con man. He had long ago discarded his shirt and was sitting in only his boxers. Who knew it could get this warm?

Vaguely, Lithuania's mind drifted to the time of the king whose name graced the public holiday. Mindaugas. The first and only king of Lithuania-afterwards he was a duchy, and before he was merely a collection of fiefdoms. Ah, but those were the days-and how scandalized, thought amused Lithuania, would the people of that time be if they were to see him as he was now? He could hear the high-spoken ladies now, gossiping in hushed and shocked tones. _Lithuania in a mere loincloth before the womenfolk!_ They would shake their heads and cluck like the housewives in the village clucked at the chickens. It simply wasn't _done._ Never mind the fact that their little country was yet a child! He knew better.

He could remember, however, the day almost eight hundred years ago now, the day of the coronation. His blood had flown through his veins and had such comfortable _fullness_. He felt like his weight had shifted and was finally settling. When he bowed as the others bowed before the King (the _only _King of Lithuania) and swore loyalty, he felt his King become _his_ King, to love and to follow.

Lithuania got up from his couch to go find a bottle of cold anything; hopefully his fridge was still working. There was a rueful smile on his face-really, he waxed over-dramatic in his reminisces; when his only King had been crowned he _had_ been very young, after all.

And yet he had reason to be inordinately happy, that coronation day. He could remember the kaleidoscope of feelings he was afflicted with, spinning from fiefdom to fiefdom with nary a pause in between.

It had been chaos.

It had been scary.

It had been aloneness and false smiles and backstabbing and cries for murder.

And Mindaugas had come with a blessed coolness to make him whole. And that had been the advent of his nationhood and, he liked to think, his being an actual person.

His bottle of water slipped from his hand as he fell asleep in the drowsy heat, smiling faintly.

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<em>

_Today is the day of Statehood for Lithuania, since it is the day that the one and only king of Lithuania was crowned._


	7. July 7th

"Welcome to the G8 summit of Hokkaido! Please enjoy your stay!" Japan bowed behind his Prime Minister as they greeted the other seven members of the summit. After exchanging pleasantries, the countries made to move off into their room and the leaders in the next.

That was what usually happened, anyways.

But instead Japan led them outside and down a busy street, where potted bamboo trees were littered with hundreds of strips of paper.

"Japan, what is the meaning of this?" asked England, uncomfortably skirting a group of giggling high school girls in yukatas.

He smiled and looked a little abashed. "This summit was on the same day as Tanabata. It's when you write wishes for the year on paper and put it on bamboo."

He took some slips of paper from his sleeve pocket and presented it to the nations. "I-I thought that it would be nice, to, uhm-"

"Awesome!" America snatched a blue paper and procured a pen that he was _going_ to use to doodle in what he thought was going to be a boring meeting, but this was beyond his wildest dreams! He immediately started to write on it.

Italy dragged Germany away, little slips of paper in hand, to look at the stalls ("Veh, veh, Germany! They have the little fish game!" "Italy, you spent all of our yen last time you tried that!")

The one who finished wishing first was England. He hung it on a bamboo branch facing inwards, so that no-one could read it. This didn't stop France from slyly peeking at his wish, chuckling, and putting his wish right next to the other nation's. His magnificent eyebrows furrowed, England read France's wish.

_I wish that England would stop being such a stick in the mud and learn how to relax._

The Brit growled dangerously. He looked at his own wish and saw that the Frenchman had written something on it. Where it had once said _I wish that I could talk openly about things, _it had something in the corner.

_My dear England, be more open with me. Especially in bed._

That kicked off a scribble war which occupied them for the rest of the evening.

Canada's wish had been simple; for people to notice him. He got bad jetlag in the next half and hour and was barely missed (save for when they did a count up and realized that someone had gone, and no one could remember who except France-but he was bloodying England's nose in return for his black eye.)

The tall man with piercing purple eyes hung a wish so high up that no one could see it. Unbeknownst to them, it was not for them to become one with him._ I wish that I could make friends more easily_, he'd thought wistfully.

_I wish that my people could stop being so mean to each other. And that I have a year's supply of burgers._

There was a sad look on America's face when he knotted the string around his wish, but when he noticed Japan looking at him he immediately turned sunny again. "What's your wish, Japan?" he asked.

Japan looked about, flustered. "I-I have forgotten." he said lamely. America, with a glint in his eye, started reading all the little tags of paper, recruiting Italy in his search.

"Aha!" he yelled, pointing at one. "This is it!"

_I wish that I could have a life-size doll of Haruhi Suzumiya._

"No! That's not it at all!" Japan pointed furiously at one tag before realizing that he had fallen into America's trap.

_I wish that I can read lots of manga this year._

"That's a kind of weird wish…" said America. He didn't notice the one that Japan had _really _been pointing at, which said things not lawful to be uttered.

Germany hung his wish up as methodically as ever. _I wish to become more efficient in encountering other people._

"That's way too stiff, Germany." complained Italy.

He turned around, a frown creasing his face. "Then what did you do?"

The Italian smiled a happy smile and pushed his wish in Germany's face. "Here, here!"

_I wish that we can have world peace._

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<em>

_In 2008, the G8 meeting coincided with the Tanabata festival, which commemorates the meeting of the two literally star-crossed lovers-Altair and Vega.  
><em>


	8. July 8th

There was always a sickening pause-a split-second, nothing more-between what North Korea _did_ and what North Korea _felt._ His mind was conquered by the brainwashing of his Glorious Leader, but his heart was with his starving people.

And it was his heart that was the problem.

"Ah, my dear nation. How are you today?" Sticky sweet, pushing up his glasses as he tried to smile reassuringly. As if he didn't know that he was starving.

But that was what pillows were for, and he adjusted his belt (his uniform hung off his spare form without it) and cleared his throat. "I am well, sir."

There. The pause had ended and he could hear a roaring in his ears, building up with awful certainty. Fear, horror, revulsion, pangs of hunger and pain and-

He could afford not to smile back. This was a deathbed, after all. But it was all going to be okay now that he had someone to guide him, to protect him, everything was going to be-

_No! No! murderers, help me_

"You are brave to come. They have told me that you grieve greatly for my father." There was no malice in his words, but it still sent shivers through North Korea.

"I-I feel that I must send him off." There. Add unshed tears. He _was _sad, wasn't he? Of course he was. (Lies, lies, and more lies)

The Eternal President's son tried to smile again, satisfied with his answer, and walked away to talk with one of the doctors. North Korea slumped against a seat, near enough to the bed to seem like he was mourning but far enough away so that if his Supreme Leader came back to life he could not grab him.

Afterwards, North Korea would laugh at himself for thinking this. But it was a real and terrible fear-and hope.

His head had too many thoughts, as did his heart.

And, in his confusion, he wept.

_Notes:_

_Today, Kim Il-Sung died. It marks the start of the reign of Kim Jong-Il-however this did not become official until 1998._


	9. July 9th

"It isn't independence." says England for the fifth time. They are in a rickety carriage about thirty minutes away from the Palace.

Australia nods patiently. "I know."

"It's just a Commonwealth. Nothing special."

There are times when the taller nation wonders if England really knows what comes out of his mouth. But he was going to get his Commonwealth, and _finally _Victoria and New South Wales would have to shut up and listen to him. He was going to enjoy the power when it finally came in.

"It's not even official yet." he continues. "It's just that the Queen said you could."

And _that_ is when Australia sighs in annoyance. "You know the Queen is half the power of the government."

"Yes, well." he dithered. "What between you and Canada, it seems like everyone is growing up."

"India was already grown up." he grins at the dark look on his mentor's face. "And _you_ are still creepy as fuck, so I think everything's still the same. Except that you're shorter than everyone."

That _really_ pissed him off, and he smacked Australia on the back of the head. "Behave! The Queen may have decided on a Commonwealth but _you_ are still my territory and thus will treat me with respect!"

"When have I ever done that?"

"Make an effort, you. And put the damn koala away." The wheels hit a bump and they jumped in their seats, waking up the slumbering koala.

"Bruce is an integral part of politics."

"I don't care. Put it away." The koala perked its absurd ears and slowly raised its head to look at England. Its claws dragged down on the wall of the carriage, peeling away a layer of paint with a chilling noise.

He glared at it. "It'll ruin the wallpaper."

"It's horrible wallpaper and you know it."

"I picked it out!"

Australia shrugged. "All the more reason to bring Bruce."

"If you're going to be this immature I'll not bring you to Her Majesty."

He kicked his legs up on the seat next to England, showing his dirt-caked traveling boots. "That old lady adores strange things. Bruce is her favourite part of the visit. Now if I brought Bertha-"

"Please, please do not mention Bertha." There was a pained and almost frightened look on England's face when he remembered 'Bertha', Australia's pet snake.

The carriage rattled to a stop before England could say any more, and the porter bowed them into the Buckingham Palace.

"Boy, behave." growled England.

"Always." returned Australia blithely.

* * *

><p><em>Notes<em>

_The Queen officially gave Her permission for Australia to become a Commonwealth today. It still took months to finalize it, but this was an important first step.  
><em>


	10. July 10th

The Lady sat stiffly on her throne. She captured neither the fairylike grace of Elizabeth, nor the interesting temper of Mary. Jane was still a pretty girl but not as well-made as her cousins.

England swept a deep, courteous bow, just as he would do for Edward-the poor, dear boy. It was, after all, good etiquette. But betraying his polite demeanour was the deep loathing written in his eyes, something that made the young girl on the throne quail inside.

But she gave a gracious smile.

That was all she could give, after all. The Lady Gray contrived to be humble, but it could not be denied that she was placed there at the insistence of her husband.

Maybe England _was_ being unfair, he always thought later; she did, after all, refuse to let Dudley become King. But at that point in time-watching Edward, a little boy he had dandled on his knee, a merry child that had run with his sisters, happiness plain in his face, to greet England as his "Unca Arthur" slowly waste away and die with Dudley coldly at his side, offering no comfort-it drove him mad.

It never grew any easier-he kept telling himself to stop investing so much of himself in the monarchy but it was _hard_ when the little ones were so guileless, a refreshing change from the gilded court life. And his Edward had been but fifteen years old when he'd passed.

And he'd died only four days ago.

Jane made a motion to the guards, who left at once. She plucked at her gown, which was of a rich green with little glints of gold held here and there, winking slyly from hidden corners.

"I thought this dress would go well with you, Sir Kirkland." Jane said carefully, still speaking in the court parlance. "It is so very like your eyes."

He gritted his teeth. But he said, distantly, "It does suit your hair, your Majesty."

The girl put a flattered hand to her hair, a rich red-brown that was brought out by the green. "Why, thank you, Sir Kirkland. You _are_ a dear."

There was a pause as the Queen smoothed out her skirts again. A sign of nervousness-how rare for the usually composed Mrs Gray. "How long do you wish to speak of petty things?" he asked bluntly.

"As long as you want to." She leaned forward, dark eyes now alive with interest. "And do you want to?"

"I must confess not to, your Majesty."

Her smile showed sharp, white pointed teeth. "So how long do you think I am to last as Queen?"

"A week at most, my dear. Mary is on the warpath."

Instead of looking trouble, her smile grew more rueful. "She always did try her best to beat us at the games…Bess and Ed and I."

At the mention of his favourite pet names for them he had to duck his head to get a grip on himself. _Be calm, be calm._

But then she seemed to notice his weakness-or maybe it was just the artlessness of her nature- and she sighed. "It hurts me to see my favourite Uncle Arthur so sad. Perhaps you would like to retire for the day?"

He was sorely tempted. But before he was Arthur, he was England, so he bent his head in gracious thanks and stood at her side while she conducted the affairs of the country.

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<em>

_Today, the Nine Days' Queen, Jane Gray, ascended the throne. She wasn't that well liked (not as much as Elizabeth or Mary) and was beheaded when Mary seized the throne. The saddest part is that the cousins Mary, Elizabeth, Jane and Edward all liked to play with one another.  
><em>


	11. July 11th

The wind whipped through the long hair of the man sitting at the prow of the ship. He was dressed simply, if a little ragged, his ceremonial robes long stowed underneath his bunk.

He breathed in the salty air of the rolling sea. He had never been this far from his home-indeed, never been this far out in the ocean. He was going towards the unknown West, to see strange sights and take back strange treasures.

China pulled his hair back into a ponytail and looked down at the clear waters rushing past the wooden hull. It was almost blinding, the blueness reflecting the sun into his eyes.

"I don't know why I didn't do this earlier!" he exclaimed, not caring that a few crew members were now staring at him. There was a sort of unsophisticated wildness about him, something that put Zheng He on edge. He was not used to his nation being so very…_free._

The explorer took a deep breath, trying to reassure himself. It _was_ the first day of their journey, and right after a very stiff ceremony. Perhaps he should give the man something to do, so that he would stop spooking the men…

* * *

><p><em>Zheng He's log, Day 1.<em>

_Today, I tried to get my Nation to calm down by cooking something for lunch (a practice that I don't usually condone from a man of his stature, but it had to be done). When I looked a few hours later, he had roped half the crew into making wontons and was boiling three days' worth of water! _

_We have enough ships and provisions to last us (and, obviously, to take what we need) but if my Nation burns through supplies like this every single mealtime I don't know how we'll manage._

_Oh dear, I hear screaming. He must be getting superstitious again. I _told_ him when we set out that sea serpents don't exist._

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<em>

_Today, Zheng He set out on his first expedition to other lands, basically starting the Age of Exploration about a hundred or so years before the Europeans; there are rumours that he got all the way to Italy on one such voyage._


	12. July 12th

There is a lull in the conversation. Russia takes the pen in large, clumsy fingers (fingers that are bitten by cold every winter) and signs a loopy signature on the paper. He is the last one to sign, and when he did Lithuania tries to hold back the tears.

The entire talks had seemed like a bad dream to him. He had tried for weeks to avoid any sort of treaty. But there, there is the signature in plain stark black, there is the pen that wrote the signature, there the arm and the too-bright eyes of the person who still seems more like a prowling cat than a regular human.

Lithuania-with trembling hands- picks up the document and carefully stows it away; in it is the complete betrayal of his best friend. Poland is starting to lose the war against Russia, and this-this would crush him. The guilt wears heavily on his mind. He does not look up from the document, numbly thinking of the look on Poland's face when he realizes that his friend-his _friend-_did this to him.

Russia has already stood up, already turned away, scarf billowing. His leader stops in his proud retreat and nudges the tall Russian, jerks his head at Lithuania.

"Say goodbye properly, Ivan." he says. Lithuania feels a jolt of shock-no leader used their country's human name in front of others. It was something to be guarded carefully, a last remaining scrap of secrecy. But Russia simply turns and smiles an empty smile.

"Give my best to Poland, yes?" he says, in rudimentary Lithuanian. His boss frowns, not able to understand it; Lithuania's boss is pleasantly surprised and beams, because he did not catch the expression with which the words were said.

But only the person it is addressed to understands the true meaning; in his empty smile, in his predatory gaze, in his slow walk, the man whose mind broke years ago really means something else;

As Russia retreats and Lithuania's boss claps him on the back in delight, all he can do is stare blankly at the door with a feeling of dread curling in the pit of his stomach.

_I just signed Poland's death warrant._

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<br>_

_Today, Lithuania was recognized by Russia to be independent. This was, however, on a few terms-and one of them was to grant Soviet troops the right to march through Lithuanian land in order to fight the war against the Polish. Lithuania wanted the independence but didn't want to leave Poland in the lurch, so they dodged the treaty for months before being backed into a corner.  
><em>


	13. July 13th

When England showed up two hours early at the cinema, no one could recognize him. He didn't go order any popcorn or drinks because he was too excited to eat-too excited to think straight, even.

He clutched his ticket so tightly that his fingers went numb. He sat next to what he dimly recognized was France in barely contained excitement.

This passed when he realized what France was wearing.

"Frog, get out of my cinema. Now." he growled through gritted teeth. France shifted so that his skirt fell more comfortably and opened his mouth to reply-and kept it open. He pointed a trembling finger at England's hair.

"_Angleterre! Ton cheveux, mon Dieu, c'est-c'est-"_ he spluttered, shocked into speaking his own language.

Almost self-consciously, England passed a hand through his now midnight black mop. "Yes, well, Harry isn't _blonde._"

"_Mais-_I mean, but-but is it _permanent?_"

England's lip curled in renewed distaste at France's powder blue robes. "Is that Beauxbaton uniform permanent?"

France was saved from saying anything by the arrival of America-who pulled Canada in tow, their Hogwarts robes trailing out from behind them. Bright orange wigs and fake freckles adorned their faces.

"You guys, you _guys! _It's going to be the very last one! The last-holy crap, your wig is awesome, Iggy-and Taiwan and Hungary and them already said that they were going to cry, which I thought was-wait a second _that's your real hair_-"

"What America is trying to say," cut in Canada deftly, "is that we're very excited."

"As always, a pleasure to see you, erm…?"

"Canada." He shifted Kumajiro's weight to his hip. The bear was unenthusiastically wearing two fake bear heads on either side of his round face and looked like he had been dipped in liquid licorice.

"Ah. I-I knew that, of course!" spluttered England, covering his embarrassment by turning to a new arrival. "Australia, how are-_get that thing away from me-_"

Australia hugged the heavy coils of Bertha's scales protectively. "Relax, pops. She don't bite. Much."

"Why did you take a Nagini?" asked America, confused. Voldemort was the _bad_ guy. People tended to not dress up as the _bad_ guy.

"If there's a Voldemort I'll ask them if they need a snake prop. But only if they're comfortable enough to hold her."

At this fortuitous moment, Prussia had just finished buying his tickets, plus size popcorn, and beer. He had walked down to the crowd outside the cinema, frightening people with his distinct lack of nose. He had walked up to England, intending to poke fun at his ridiculous costume-or maybe to pull up France's skirt.

The world may never know.

For a few meters away Prussia saw a bright, scaly streak of green cross his vision. And for a few seconds he beheld Bertha in the air, her coils looping gracefully around his neck.

Later, he was to record in his diary that he was "awesome and completely cool with it".

"GETITOFFMEEEE!" he shrieked, pulling at the snake's body. Australia immediately ran over and said crossly, "Don't scare Bertha!"

"Scare Bertha! Scare-No, I wouldn't want to scare the verdammnt _snake _now would I? "

"Old girl tends to bite when she's scared." Australia was gently running a thumb down Bertha's head, calming her.

"Just-get-it-off-me-" jerked out Prussia through clenched teeth. He pulled away at the snake and it nuzzled against his cheek before returning to Australia's waiting arms.

"Y'know, it would be great if you could have her, since you're Voldemort an' all-"

"No. A thousand times _no._"

Australia shrugged. By now the waiting crowd had swelled and many familiar nations could be glimpsed between the actual humans; it seemed like at least fifty nations had come to watch at England's theater.

The ticket mistress opened the doors and the fans streamed in, all humming the Harry Potter theme like it was going out of fashion.

Which, in a curious way, it was.

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<em>

_Today was the midnight screening of Harry Potter in most developed countries._

_Also, updates are scarce because I was banned from the computer for the duration of the holidays. Slow catch-up, here we come._


	14. July 14th

His very bones seemed to hum in anticipation. The ramshackle peasant army had gathered around the Bastille, stolen weapons clutched and shaking with rage. He had long abandoned the King and his Queen to stay with the peasants; he had been sleeping in an alleyway. It was summer, which meant that he would not freeze. However the smell of dung and overripe fruits destroyed any kind of smell that one had.

The fine jacket and silk stockings had been sold to get food. He'd not seen just how poor his population was, shut up in his castle. He had felt his stomach hollow out in hunger while in Parliament, split-second pains and horrible wooziness passing when the King pressed him with fine food.

It was as ashes in his mouth.

But now. Now he was a dirt-smeared, mud-caked, smelly piece of common filth and he was happier than in his airy chambers. He was _France _and not _Francis,_ a roar on the lips of the desperate many against the privileged few.

With a huge surge, the mob raced to the Bastille, rifles firing in untrained hands and swords swinging wildly, cutting down as many of their own as the enemy. France was careful to stay in the middle, so as not to show off his prowess with the blade (and thus mark him as a noble).

But the line of soldiers broke suddenly (by what order?) and the people swarmed inside, cheering, screaming, battle cries hovering above their heads in bloody glory.

And France looked up at the isolated King, up high in his tower. And he looked away.

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<em>

_Today is France's national holiday, the Storming of the Bastille. It was a huge rallying point for the French Revolution and was carried out by an over-enthusiastic civilian army. _


	15. July 15th

"Aw, _hell!_"

The albino warrior looked for his Grand Master Ulrich, staring up at him in barely disguised fury.

"They're farmers! I've been fighting all my life and we are getting beaten by a bunch of cow-lickin' _farmers!_"

"They have superior forces." Mumbled Ulrich, highly disturbed.

"Forces my shiny white-"a stern glance from the commander made him falter "-hair."

Before he could be chastised for being lewd he stomped away towards an arrow-slit window. The army was still there, and to add insult to injury they were holding a bloody _Mass._

He cleared his throat and cupped his hands to his face.

"_Oi! Poland! Stop being such a nancy-boy and fight like a man!_"

It certainly got one of the men's attention-a blond one with what looked like incredibly fancy armor. He just shook his head and chattered away with some other, more bewildered clergymen.

But one of the knights stiffened at the taunt and grabbed a bow. He let loose an arrow and it struck incredibly close to Prussia's arrow slit. He whipped backwards, startled. Then he stumped away to another arrow slit (this one farther from Lithuania) and hollered, "You're letting some godless brat do your dirty work for you, Polish filth? Don't forget your holy-" he could not finish as more arrows thumped against the hard stone. One, by sheer luck, went through the slit and nearly caught Prussia full in the face.

"You should, like, get over yourself!" returned Poland. "Just, y'know, surrender already; you're being a total drag!"

"Never!"

Prussia stuck his arm out to enrage the army and was just about to see if he could fit his ass in afterwards when Ulrich seized his shoulder and pulled him back.

The Grand Master commanded, "Go to your chambers and stay there until I deem you mature enough to come back out!"

The albino slunk into his rooms, muttering.

"Shouldn'ta woken up this morning."

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<em>

_I have way too much Lithuania in my fic but how could I resist Grunwald, you guys. HOW._

_So after getting defeated by the Lithuanian and Polish joint-army, the Teutonic Order holed up in this little castle battlement and were besieged._


	16. July 16th

He should be happy.

The goddamned Nazis had been razed to the ground. The terrible black shadow of millions of deaths had been stopped from spreading. The most horrible war ever fought in the history of human civilization had been ended, and he could finally lay back and start breathing again without smoke clogging his lungs.

But he wasn't.

Because he was still weak from bombs, and when he entered the meeting room being stared down by the three Nations in front of him he could feel the hatred left over from the war in their glare.

Germany pushed back his hair-for once not in its sleek hairdo, but clinging limply to his sweating forehead-and took his position at the end of the room. The eyes of all the foreign dignitaries were upon his face, his civilian clothes, his obvious lack of sleep and food.

But they said nothing.

After a while the talks were to proceed and the nations waved out (they did not want their country to know everything, that was the job of the leaders) into a new room.

That was when Germany knew he was in trouble.

America, he could see, was wound as tight as a coiled spring, ready to burst-he was incredibly young for a country, and had seen four decades of horror unfold on the world stage. He had over-bright eyes, and blinked too often as if he was trying to constantly clear away what he was actually seeing.

As a direct contrast Russia (or the USSR, as he preferred to be called) was completely and off-puttingly relaxed. His entire demeanor was completely at odds with how much Germany knew he had hurt him. Only his mouth gave him away-it was set in a hard line.

But nothing prepared him for England.

He was pale and slumped in a seat as soon as one was available, and passed a shaking hand over his face.

"Please, let's not start to fight now. We've done it enough these past four years." he said, weary. His famous temper had seemed to finally break.

Germany sat at the table as well, soon joined by America on the other side, next to England. Russia remained standing.

"Why would we be fighting, comrade? I think without a war to distract us this will be a great opportunity for us to be friends."

The bespectacled nation stiffened, and then raised his head to look at Russia with such a fierce loathing that Germany shuffled his chair backwards, startled. He had heard only a few rumors that the two did not get along, but to see two allies suddenly turn on one another was-

Like him and Italy.

He knew it couldn't last. Not while there were advantageous positions, not when there were political gains.

While the two superpowers snapped at each other, he sank his head into his hands. _Italy._ How could he? How _could_ he? He couldn't even claim that his boss ordered him to-that was a shallow excuse. He'd carried out the bombing; he'd seen pain and hurt and betrayal on his best friend's…no, his only friend's face.

And Romano had been sneering throughout it, planted firmly on his patch of land and holding his brother. He'd been screaming something at the planes overhead, as the Allies swarmed and he was surrounded-

But Italy. His skin pale under his tan, his eyes dilated with fear, his clothes torn from shrapnel and shaking with bomb trauma.

He would be honest. He had loved the odd little gelato-scarfing idiot.

He didn't realize he was crying until the others had left the room.

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<em>

_Today, the Big Three (Winston Churchill, Harry Truman, and Joseph Stalin) started the first of the meetings in Potsdam, which was mainly to decide the punishment for the war-torn Germany. I realize this got off track but I think when faced with the consequences of his actions Germany was swamped with regret and guilt._


	17. July 17th

Russia felt happy. He was going to see his royal family again.

They were under house arrest, but that was okay-he felt a connection to them, since he had been with their parents and their parents' parents for over three hundred years. They were, in his mind, the closest thing to his family.

He arrived at two in the afternoon, enough time to meet them.

In the room was Nicholas, and his daughter Anastasia.

Nicholas was more haggard than he remembered, but the little crows' feet around his eyes still crinkled when he smiled (which was not often, that day) and his children still gave the pretense of merriment. Anastasia barrelled straight into his chest as when she was a little girl.

"Oh, Ivan! I thought that you'd never see us again!" she cried, giddy. She turned and ran back to get the others.

"She has not changed much." observed Russia, smiling (genuinely, to his astonishment).

"No, she hasn't at that. How are you, Ivan?" Nicholas asked, careful not to address him by his actual title-as he was no longer a ruler, he should no longer know national secrets.

It was all very trivial to Russia. "I am fine. The Bolsheviks are still fighting."

He was not sure why Nicholas winced. But that was something that he used to know, a few years ago. It was funny how much one revolution changed things.

But then the four girls and their brother burst into the room, and all were talking at once.

"Oh, you _must _perform a play with us, you simply _have _to, we have been wanting a tall man and Alexei is simply to short-"

"Hey!"

"Oh, but it's so good to see you!"

"Now, now, everyone, don't crowd him." chided Tatiana, reining in her siblings. "Olga, Anastasia, Maria! You're all grown women-have some shame!"

"Me and Maria aren't grown yet. We're not even twenty." Maria put on her big blue eyes at Tatiana pleadingly. She relented, laughing, and they all attacked Russia with kisses and fervent hugs.

"How long are you going to be staying?" asked Alexei, excited. He had been standing mannishly aside to let the girls go first but he too was ecstatic.

Russia patted him gently. "I must go tomorrow afternoon, but I promise I will visit you again soon."

The rest of the day was a blur for him, the four girls and their little brother trailing behind pulled into activities (Anastasia got her play, and Olga donned a scandalizingly short skirt for it) and running through the small house like banshees. The Tsarina (or, he remembered to himself, Alexandra) complained that the noise was not that befitting young women.

Russia slept in a room opposite the children and next to his old rulers, worn and happy.

"It is a sitting for a portrait."

His hazy dreams were interrupted by strange men in the morning, making everyone get dressed and ready. Maria slipped into his room to wake him and lead him to the place. It was a tiny basement, with whitewashed walls to make the light bounce well. It would be a good portrait, concluded Russia.

He didn't expect Yurovsky to walk into the room.

He didn't expect the edict.

And Russia started forward, to stop the guns, to shield them with his body. But he was held back and the guns trained on the family.

Alexandra and Olga tried to cross themselves, but they died from the bullets ripping at them. Nicholas was killed by Yurovsky, his blood pooling on the floor, his screams mingling with the screams of the children, of his duchess and his empress.

There was stillness as the five young ones stared, broken, at the corpses of their parents, Olga clutching gun wounds.

Then the guns roared.

Two shots and Alexei was cut off mid scream, his dead eyes wide with fear. The four sisters were not dead, their jewels sewed into their clothing protecting them.

"No! Please, stop, _please_-" screamed Olga, trying to get in front of Maria and Anastasia. Her blood splattered the two, and with a dull _thunk_ her body fell to the floor. The soldiers advanced, their bayonets flashing.

"_Don't, not us, why-_" the bayonets flashed again and again, and Tatiana's howls of anguished finally died away as Maria and Anastasia crouched in the corner of the room, hiding their heads and tears coursing down their cheeks, sobbing.

Maria was shot, and she slumped downwards. Anastasia scrabbled backwards from her dead sister, cornered by the executionists. That was when one soldier took his bayonet and stabbed Anastasia in the heart. She screamed.

He stabbed her again, this time in the stomach. She doubled over, and her eyes-her horrible eyes-were on Russia, and her eyes held her broken heart.

Then, silence.

The coppery smell of blood was lapping at their feet. Dimly Russia could hear someone retching in the corner.

"Why…?" he whispered. He crawled forwards and touched the mangled body of Alexei. "Why?"

"It had to be done. The White Army is advancing." Yurovsky ordered soldiers to take away the dead.

He watched. The pools of blood stained his legs and hands and arms, but he didn't care.

Anastasia's eyes could not leave him.

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<em>

_Today, the Romanov family was killed so that the White Army (the royalists, basically) would have no beacon with which to rally. The family was canonized in 2000._


	18. July 18th

The smell of burning woke him. He sat straight up in bed when the searing pain started to spread across his chest and tumbled out of bed. He slammed the window open and saw-

Smoke. Heavy and dark and musty. And people running left and right, and some giving themselves over to the fire.

Rome ran out into the streets and smashed into a man carrying a brand of fire. Before he could ask him anything the man threw the torch through Rome's window and said, "I am acting under orders. Do not attempt to stop me!"

The nation went cold. Nero was at Antium-could he have-? Would he have-? Was it possible-?

The man picked up another torch and was lighting it when Rome made up his mind. He tackled him to the ground and knocked away the torch into the already sturdy blaze of his house.

He stopped by a house he knew had children in it. The mother was outside-her hands were bleeding and burned from trying to clear away the remains of her still-burning house. Next to her were the two children, tugging at her to hurry up.

He stopped and tried to get her on her feet, but she refused. "My husband is dead, sir-_dead._ I want to join him."

"Do you want your children to die too?" he asked harshly. The woman slowly turned her head to regard the two.

"They are my sister's. And she is dead. I do not care."

At this the two children started wailing for their mamma, and they begged their aunt to 'please, please just go and find her!'

But the woman stayed against the burning rubble of her house. Rome looked around and could see a ring of fire starting to close around them. He scooped up the children, murmuring _ssh, sshh, it's going to be fine._

Around the other side of his mouth he glared at the woman and uttered, "You are disgusting."

The woman levelled her gaze at the nation for the first time.

The kid in his arms clung to his neck and his sister was slung over his shoulder beating her little fists against his back. With every step he took he looked for gaps, water, anything. It seemed like every district he went through there was another fire, and more people staying behind to help but blocking the way for those who wanted to escape.

Eventually he found the father of his charges and left them with him, before asking the father what happened.

He shook his head. "They are saying that Nero sent soldiers to burn Rome from Antium, and some others swore they saw him in a tower singing of Troy."

"That's stupid!" growled Rome. "I'll go challenge these people myself-"

"But it's what people believe. So you'd do better to keep your mouth shut, neighbour." advised the congressman. He patted down the boy's head and turned to flee to the countryside.

Rome could see the dawn breaking as the fires continued to spread. His entire body ached, but he wouldn't stop working until every fire was put out.

Nero would have to wait.

* * *

><p><em>Notes:<em>

_Today, the city of Rome was aflame. During it it was firmly belived that Nero had gone off his rocker and ordered the city to blaze. Many, having failed to save their loved ones, simply lost the will to live. A lot of people stayed behind to help out. The fire went on for at least five days._


	19. July 19th

The tent opening flapped when Sweden pushed through it. Inside, Charles X silently contemplated a map marked over meticulously with dashes, lines, crosses, and circles. He stood obediently before a chair when Charles lowered his head, giving him permission to sit.

Neither one said a word. It was five or ten minutes before Charles X looked up from his documents.

"I presume you wonder why I called you here?" he asked. Sweden did not move or betray any flicker of emotion on his face.

Charles X nodded. "Good. I have called you here to ask for advice." He gestured to the map. Sweden bent forwards to inspect it-it had maybe twice the number of crosses compared to circles on another side of the marsh. The only trouble was that Sweden, from his vantage point, could not discern whether it was his army or Poland's.

Tapping the circles, Sweden's boss said briskly "These are our forces. We are five miles away from enemy camp. I know that you've gathered further information from the scouts; so tell me. What say you about the oncoming battle?"

"'S a risky move." replied the blond. "We're the 'ffensive force, an' that's risky even with super'or numbers. They know the land better'n we do, an' we have to cross a marsh an' part of a forest to get t'them."

"An astute response. However I believe that we will be able to rout them."

Sweden gave a stiff bow, and went out of the tent. He devoutly hoped that Charles X was true.

* * *

><p><em>Today, one of the battles of the Great Northern War was won by Sweden against the aggregate forces of the Polish and the Saxons (but mostly Polish). The Swedish mopped the floor with the numerically and territorially superior army.<em>


	20. July 20th

The world was silent. Its attention-its full, undivided, and sometimes conflicting attention-was focused solely on two men on a lonely gray land.

America sucked in his breath. Japan started chomping hard on his rice. France had dropped his wineglass but was too immersed in the television to mop it up. England had started to pour his tea on the floor. Italy and Romano had pasta halfway to their mouths. Germany simply stared.

Yes, it was a product of two nations who were more-than-likely to blow one another up. But right now, nothing like that mattered. Right now, people forgot their inhibitions.

Right now, all the Nations were watching something that most had dismissed as a dream; something that had been a dream for hundreds of years, ever since they first saw the white moon turn gently in her sphere.

This was something that had been thousands of years in the making.

The soft hiss of the door opening filled the living rooms as one white, booted foot could be seen, and then another. They descended down a ladder and Armstrong paused, one foot above the dusty surface of the moon, almost gearing himself up for the challenge-to be the first man, the first man ever to set foot on a surface other than Earth.

He knew it was ridiculous, but China couldn't stop wondering if the rabbit in the moon was going to appear. Greece and Turkey had put aside their differences (for now) and looked at the same television in awe. Russia had not allowed them to look at the launching, but right now all the Soviet countries were clustered around the tiny black-and-white set.

America, for once, did not move. He could remember the moon lighting his and Canada's way at night, when their mother had been occupied with other things. He could remember the moon when he drove forth westwards, with her light blanching the red dusty rocks of the Grand Canyon. He could remember wanting to pluck it from her place in the sky.

It felt like an age-though it was only a few seconds-before his left foot came down on another world.

In that moment, the world, as if tired of holding in its breath, let it all go at once. Suddenly, cheering started up, so much that Armstrong's words were almost drowned out:

_This is one small step for man, and one giant leap for mankind._

* * *

><p><em>Today, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were the first men ever to set foot on the moon.<em>


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